It’s Coming Home
Early in the morning.
It is coming without warning.
The songbirds stop their singing.
Silence so strong that it is ringing.
It is coming home to you.
Way across the meadow.
Something moving in the nettles.
It doesn’t act like they are stinging.
There is something it is flinging.
It is coming home to you.
It is coming closer.
Its shadow couldn’t be grosser.
Its arms are almost dragging.
Tail is limber, almost wagging.
It is coming home to you.
Its fur is ruffled and dirty.
In a rush, there go all the birdies.
Its feet are sinking in the field.
It holds its arm up like a shield.
It is coming home to you.
Will the nightmare end?
Why is it coming again?
There is no way to help it now.
Not after it slaughtered that cow.
It is coming home to you.
It is at the front door now.
It has got to go away somehow.
You can hear its grunt and growl.
You get a whiff of something foul.
It is coming home to you.
Then, you wake up screaming.
You don’t understand the meaning.
A repeating dream that comes to you.
You’re shaking and you don’t have a clue.
Why it keeps coming home to you.
You get up to have some coffee.
First you have to stop and take a pee.
You look out the window, coffee in hand.
Something is moving across the land.
It is coming home to you.
————————R. W. Johnson—–(2017)